It was nearly midnight when Johnny’s phone buzzed.
He was lying on his back in bed, arms folded under his head, the glow from the hallway spilling faintly under his door. Gibs had just texted the group chat something about Biggies on Friday. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
Not when her name lit up his screen a moment later.
He stared at it.
Just a message. One line.
“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.” — Fleetwood Mac
He sat up slowly, heart thudding against his ribs like it knew what that meant. What it didn’t say. What she still wasn’t saying aloud.
He hadn’t heard from her directly in weeks. Not since the last time they saw each other in the parking lot outside Tommen, all polite smiles and silent earthquakes.
She’d left him—gently, quietly, brokenly—saying she needed to find herself, heal properly, stop depending on someone else to keep her head above water.
He told her he understood. Because he did. But he also didn’t.
And now this.
A lyric from the song she used to hum when they’d cook noodles at his house after school, when her hair still smelled like lavender and her jumper sleeves hung past her fingers.
He stared at the words. Read them again.
“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.”
The ache was instant. Familiar. Bone-deep.
He didn’t know what to say back. Not yet. Maybe nothing tonight. But he opened Spotify anyway, typed in Fleetwood Mac – Silver Springs, and let it play quietly in the dark.
Johnny leaned back against the headboard, the music filling the quiet.
And he let himself miss her. Just for tonight.